


The Dragonborn Chronicles

by ScribeOfRED



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Celebrities, Diary/Journal, Eventual Romance, Gen, Violence, an exploration of the world of Skyrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21701860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: Excerpts taken from Lydia's journal.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	The Dragonborn Chronicles

Twelve long years of training, of accompanying Jarl Balgruuf’s forces on bandit raids and patrols, and I’m finally moving into a new position. Housecarl—me. I’ve worked hard for the role, bled and sweat as much as anyone else here in Whiterun, but it’s still something of a surprise. I didn’t know anyone was in contention for the status of Thane.

Now it seems like the city can speak of nothing else. Less of the title Thane and more of the rumors surrounding him who’s earned it.

They say he had a hand in killing the dragon that attacked the Western Watchtower. It would explain why he’s earned the title so swiftly—no one I’ve spoken to seems to know who he is or where he came from, and Thane is not a status granted without good reason. Not here, anyway. The Jarl is a firm but fair man, not easily swayed by gold or pretty words.

I can only pray that my new master is of similar moral stature.

* * *

He’s no Nord, that much is clear. Imperial, I think, although I didn’t ask and he didn’t say, but he doesn’t even know what Thanes or housecarls are. I had to explain the titles and their meanings, so he’s come from outside Skyrim, and recently.

Still, he’s handled himself reasonably well so far—there has been no immediate evidence that his newfound status is something he plans to abuse. I want to doubt that he’s foolish enough to take advantage of what will soon be my constant proximity to him—he’s certainly seemed cordial and respectful enough so far—but it’s something to watch, at least for a time. Can’t be too careful, as Ma is so fond of warning me.

We’re staying at the Mare for now, but in one of the few conversations we’ve had, he’s expressed an interest in purchasing property within the city walls. He’ll need more coin than he has at present, I suspect, although I’m unsure how he plans to acquire it.

* * *

Almost a week spent on the road with him, and it’s becoming apparent that “plan” is too generous a word. Too structured. Before we left Whiterun, there were endless rumors about him, but most shared a common theme: the old Greybeards have summoned him up to their mountaintop retreat.

_Dovahkiin_, the guards whispered, and though I listened, I did not believe.

I’m starting to believe now, maybe a little. Or maybe he’s merely an individual gifted in the Thu’um. Perhaps the Greybeards will take him on as a successor; perhaps this is how their secretive order survives.

I don’t know, it’s pure speculation on my part, and I’m exhausted. We’ve stumbled into several bandits’ dens and had to fight our way through them as we travel west. Why west, I don’t know, and my Thane doesn’t seem to have a firm answer when I ask. The western capitals, Solitude, Markarth—they aren’t our destination. The Greybeards’ mountain certainly isn’t where we’re heading. “Exploring,” is all he says when I press. Are we to explore all of Skyrim on foot? Maybe I’m doomed to follow a wanderer until one far-off year from now he grows bored and either settles somewhere or sends me home.

Home. What I wouldn’t give for a proper roof over our heads, somewhere stable where we don’t have to worry about avenging bandits or prowling beasts stumbling upon our position, somewhere with guarded city walls and lockable doors. So far we haven’t been ambushed, but at this rate it’s only a matter of time.

* * *

Riften, apparently, is our destination, although I am not convinced either of us wanted or planned to come here. It’s a dank, fishy-smelling town with an even worse reputation, but a fortnight into traveling together and I’m getting a strong sense we’re going to be visiting all sorts of... interesting places.

If nothing else, at least we have our roof, if only for a little while.

* * *

Riften seems like a terrible place to live, full of crime and orphans and an upper echelon committed to cramming even more gold into their bulging pockets. Perhaps it’s not unlike Whiterun in that manner, but they feel like two cities apart. Everything down to the weather seems dreary here; I do not believe I’ve seen the sun since we stepped through the water-stained gates. Even without the Throat of the World looming overhead, the sky seems in constant demand, gray-brown buildings blending into gray-brown clouds.

Or maybe it’s the threat from the townsfolk that’s casting a shroud over the city. The Thieves Guild still has a foothold here, and the Black-Briars are a constant presence, boasted of or whispered about in every conversation and around every corner. A misstep here could lead to becoming far too familiar with the sludgy depths of the canal.

There are some interesting, even nice, people, like the local blacksmith, who was happy to buy off some of our excess weaponry. Some people have even promised us coin in exchange for services rendered, which is promising except for our eventual needing to return to this miserable city upon completion.

* * *

We have been approached by what I suspect is a member of the Thieves Guild—a dangerous prospect at best. I have advised my Thane to the best of my knowledge, but he’s out scouting for information right now before we make a decision one way or the other. Or at least I hope that’s what he’s doing—for all I know, his curiosity and adventurer’s heart are leading him into trouble.

* * *

I have been assured that our hasty departure from Riften has nothing to do with thieves or Black-Briars; I am not sure I believe either claim. What other reason do we have to depart from the Rift with such swiftness?

I did, however, learn that my poor Thane is trying to scrape together enough coin to purchase property in Whiterun. It seems he’s determined to follow the traditions of holding the title, which is an admirable thing for an Imperial to do. Too many who live in our land don’t see the need to follow our customs, but he’s different. Maybe the blood of the dovah runs through his veins after all.

* * *

Two days of traveling almost due north and either he’s beginning to trust me or he’s growing bored of silence. Regardless of reason, he’s confided he’s picked up the trail of some rumors he feels called to pursue—his words, not mine. So far his intuition hasn’t led us astray, but we’ve spent just over a fortnight on the road, and I’m not certain he yet understands the wilds of this province.

Though, if I’m being fair, he isn’t the only one who’s learning. This has been an... eye-opening experience so far, and despite our occasional missteps, we seem to be making some good progress.

...

Stendarr’s mercy.

He’s just told me we’re “going to Windhelm.” _Windhelm_.

I would rather turn around and go straight back to Riften. At least it’s just dirty and fishy with the occasional thief—Windhelm is ancient, a crumbling ruin of its former glory, plagued by strife and dissent. It’s dangerous now, too, what with Ulfric and his Stormcloaks based there. So far the Empire hasn’t made a move on the city, but it’s only a matter of time before their reportedly small clashes become bigger. The roads are more dangerous than ever, as we’re learning firsthand.

* * *

I have seen my first dragon. It was... huge, even from a distance, and I’m not exactly certain how I feel about our current objective of pursuing it. I know my Thane has already had a hand in killing one, but that was with the assistance of Whiterun’s skilled guard. Battling some wolves or a few bandits together is nowhere near as difficult as trying to take on a dragon.

At least I have the remainder of the night to talk him out of the chase. Secunda and Masser have both waned, so we’ve set up camp. It’s safer than attempting to navigate unknown terrain without adequate light.

I would feel better if we couldn’t occasionally hear the distant but chilling roars of dragon, but we don’t seem to have any options otherwise, and at least we appear to be far enough away that we haven’t caught its attention. Fighting a dragon after sundown seems more than just unwise.

* * *

Dragons didn’t end up being the biggest threat—something I never thought I’d have to write—because _the Dark Brotherhood_ came after us.

Not us. _Him_. The Dark Brotherhood doesn’t kill unless a contract has been taken out, and I’m no one. Dovahkiin, though...

Maybe there have only been a few of his kind because the others have all been taken out before they have the chance to gain renown. Akatosh knows that was very nearly the case tonight.

I was almost too late.

He’s resting now, but his breathing is still rough, and when the now-blazing fire flickers just so, it’s possible to see the shiny red line stretching across his throat, barely visible above the collar of his tunic. A fresh one—the original one he had beneath his armor is drying before the fire, the front still stained a rusty red.

Potions can only do so much—he’ll wear the scar for the rest of his life, all because I wasn’t fast enough. But what normal folk expect the Dark Brotherhood to come after them? They only target people with influence and the enemies of those with coin enough to spare, neither of which he is.

But come for him they have, perhaps because he’s angered someone, perhaps because the wrong ears have heard whispers of _Dovahkiin_. It’s not too late for him to leave Skyrim, to find himself a new life somewhere far away, but he won’t take it. I know that already.

I wish I could give him another potion—it sounds like he’s having a difficult time breathing—but I fear giving him another so soon would jeopardize his life yet again, and once is enough for one night.

That he’s survived having his throat cut is worthy of praise. I’ll have to remember to make a donation to the temple when we return to Whiterun.

I won’t wake him for watch tonight—he still looks troubled, sleep fitful, skin damp in the firelight, and the way his breath keeps catching makes him sound like he’s ill. Maybe...

...

I found no poison on the body, even after two searches. Two, because my Thane decided to become sick and I had to help him otherwise I fear he would have choked to death on his own blood—a bad sign, but perhaps not an unexpected one considering he’s recovering from his throat being cut. There’s no telling how much damage remains. If he makes it through the night, if we aren’t burned alive by the dragon still circling somewhere to the north, I’ll give him another potion, consequences be damned.


End file.
